


revolutions in neon

by suheafoams



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Magical Realism, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28793292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suheafoams/pseuds/suheafoams
Summary: Seonghwa’s coat smells like a cluster of spices he can’t distinguish beyond the leading notes of cumin and garlic, and smoke that’s going to cling for a while even if he airs it out on the balcony after he gets home.The nearing hum of an engine draws him out of his thoughts, and Seonghwa lifts his head to glance at the yellow cab that’s come to a stop right in front of him. Taxis like that don’t circle around this area unless they’ve been specifically called for, but the window on the passenger’s side rolls down, revealing a young driver with dusty blonde hair and eyes that seem a little too piercing to be directed at a stranger like Seonghwa.(seonghwa's days are blurring into a continuous line of monotony. a chance meeting with a mysterious taxi driver cuts the cycle short, turns it into something else.)
Relationships: Kang Yeosang/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	revolutions in neon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sangiebyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangiebyheart/gifts).



> !!!!!! happy birthday pita!!!! you are such a bright and kind presence in my life so i wanted to write some good ole fic for you. it's Definitely Not Seongsang even though you saw my spoiler tweet and i didnt block out the S in Seonghwa well enough- 
> 
> writing like this is nowhere near my comfort zone, but i hope you (and anyone else who decides to read this story) enjoy the ride :3c

Day in, day out. 

Seonghwa takes a shallow breath, registers faint cigarette smoke from one of the waiters taking a break out front from the restaurant Seonghwa has just stepped out of. 

They don’t make eye contact. In a city like this where it’s easier to forget people even if you keep meeting them, no greeting is better than any. 

Friday nights at _Fever’s Fortune_ attracts an assorted crowd. Quiet groups of college students looking for a reliable barbecue fix, foreigners who’ve been tipped off to a local gem spot, boisterous members of the workforce looking to air their grievances with loosened ties and their blazers shed to combat the climbing heat of grilled meat and personal frustrations. 

The seating in the booths are green, peeling away and cracked at the edges but clean. Certain tables wobble if you’re not a regular and haven’t yet learned to lean your weight on the right part of plastic vinyl covers. On top of the self-serve refrigerator filled with lemon soda and iced tea sits a gold and red tinged _Budai_ figure, smile bright and wide even in the dingy yellow light. 

Seonghwa’s coat smells like a cluster of spices he can’t distinguish beyond the leading notes of cumin and garlic, and smoke that’s going to cling for a while even if he airs it out on the balcony after he gets home. 

He’s had headaches all week. Stress, not enough sleep, seasons changing...the potential reasons go on. The pressure at the back of his skull usually fades and becomes manageable, almost forgettable if he’s curled up underneath the blankets, but Seonghwa can’t spend his every waking moment in bed as ideal as it might sound. 

He’s not much better off when he’s asleep, because dreams plague him. It’s hard to decide which is worse, not remembering the things that haunt him while he’s unconscious or remembering, with glass like clarity, everything that makes it feel so hard to breathe when he’s awake. 

A vicious cycle. Seonghwa’s days and nights pass by him in a blur, precious time slipping past without giving him a chance to put the world on pause. 

He exhales. Checks his phone, clears all of his notifications and frowns when he realizes he can see a smudge of grease across the screen. 

Given the chance, Seonghwa isn’t sure what he would change or where he would even start. The possibilities are endless, they say, but rather than be presented with vast unknowns, Seonghwa just wants to be content. 

The nearing hum of an engine draws him out of his thoughts, and Seonghwa lifts his head to glance at the yellow cab that’s come to a stop right in front of him. Taxis like that don’t circle around this area unless they’ve been specifically called for, but the window on the passenger’s side rolls down, revealing a young driver with dusty blonde hair and eyes that seem a little too piercing to be directed at a stranger like Seonghwa. 

The man’s features are doll-like, symmetrical to an excessive degree. He’d fit right in on the cover of a fashion magazine, with curls framing his heart shaped face and porcelain skin that looks painstakingly crafted. If Seonghwa leans in close, maybe he’ll find the fingerprint finishing touches of a sculptor still searching for perfection. 

“Are you looking for a sign?” 

The car glows, ever so slightly, until Seonghwa blinks and no neon smoke remains to be found. He rubs at his eyes, and considers the odd choice of words delivered with a soothing, mellow voice. 

Expectant eyes land on Seonghwa and settle, unnerving in their unreadable stillness. “...Sorry?” Seonghwa says. 

“You look a little aimless,” the man replies, casually, “and also like you don’t know how to escape it.”

Frowning, Seonghwa reaches for his phone, scrambling for some semblance of composure as he takes a step back. It’s an unnerving remark even if the man isn’t wrong, and Seonghwa knows better than to take unsolicited observations about himself to heart. He’d be a prime target for cult recruiters and organizations with shadier practices, if that were the case. 

When Seonghwa looks back up at the taxi driver, though, he realizes the man’s hair is now dark brown and messier, skin no longer as pale as it appeared moments before. His eyes are still blue, but tendrils of moving ink run from the outer perimeter of his jaw down to his neck and below the collar of his black dress shirt, a different one from the uniform he’d initially worn. 

Most striking is what looks to be a coin sized birthmark below his left eye, a slightly pinker, darker tone than his skin. It doesn’t take away from his beauty but it definitely wasn’t there before. As detached as Seonghwa is, he’s not someone who’d miss a detail like that, and the disparity in perception has his breath stopping short. 

“Sorry,” the man says, catching on to Seonghwa’s alarm. He offers Seonghwa a small, calm smile. “If I don’t concentrate, it’s hard to keep my form consistent.” 

“Right.” Seonghwa laughs, hoping it diffuses the panic brimming throughout his body and dampens his instinctive urge to throw up because he suddenly can’t feel solid ground underneath his feet. 

“Do you want to know?” Several letters in the coral lighting of _Fever’s Fortune_ flicker. The man has reverted back to the dusty blonde, no birthmark, and porcelain, flawless features when Seonghwa glances between the taxi and the restaurant, though his tattoos remain, less turbulent now in their motions but shimmering across the surface of his skin nonetheless. 

“Know what?” 

“How to escape it,” the man explains, tilting his head, whistling for a few seconds in the intermission of a proposal Seonghwa hasn’t yet accepted or even grasped. His lips remained pressed together, but Seonghwa can hear him all the same, that assuaging tone and quality of voice which makes Seonghwa want to _realize_ despite the dangers lying ahead of him. 

_Are you going to live every single day like this? With the same start, same monotony, same lights out defeat every night and repeat it until you’re just a shell of yourself?_

Seonghwa doesn’t remember when he started living like that, putting aside childlike curiosity enough times until it became a stranger to him, or a coat that he kept saving for brighter days until it was too late and no longer fit his adult frame. He looks forward to nothing other than the temporary escape of sleep, and his heart remains unmoved except for brief sparks of happiness that fade as quickly as they ignite, effects fleeting at best. 

“You can say no,” the man says, as if he senses Seonghwa’s hesitation. “You can go back inside to join your coworkers.” 

“I could,” Seonghwa says. “But should I?” 

“I can’t tell you that,” the man laughs, and the sound of his amusement is just as pretty as the way his voice curls around the ends of consonants. Against his better judgment, Seonghwa is intrigued. “You have to decide for yourself.” 

Seonghwa’s choice solidifies when he ends up in the passenger’s seat of the taxi, reaching for the seat belt to buckle himself in. The restaurant worker smoking outside doesn’t seem to have registered Seonghwa’s presence at all since he started talking to the mysterious stranger driving an eerie cab, but Seonghwa is more focused on the business card on the dashboard displaying a neatly printed name and contact information. “Yeosang?” 

The name tastes as foreign as it does familiar, but any tangible reason escapes Seonghwa as to why. Perhaps his brain is filling in memories he doesn’t have so that he feels more at ease taking risks he’s been taught to avoid. 

“Yes?” 

“Is that your real name?” Seonghwa isn’t sure what answer he’s hoping for, when he doesn’t even know why he asked. 

“Does it matter?” Yeosang asks. The quirk of his raised eyebrow is deceptively pleasant, but the firm line of his mouth is openly solemn, and Seonghwa thinks he _remembers_ … “I think reality isn’t your priority anyways.” 

“Probably not,” Seonghwa says wryly. 

“I use a different one every time,” Yeosang says. As he exits the plaza and turns right, Seonghwa takes in the abrupt quiet of the city streets and the odd purple tint of street lamps that usually radiate the more complementary yellow. “But who I am never changes.” 

Puzzled, Seonghwa furrows his brow at the ambiguous statement. He feels like he’s supposed to understand, but he doesn’t. He’s never been good at riddles. 

“If you could see your whole life unfold in front of your eyes,” Yeosang asks, carefully, “would you want to?” 

Chewing on his lower lip, Seonghwa asks, “All the way to the end?” 

“Yeah,” Yeosang says. “Up until your last day on Earth.” 

“I don’t know,” Seonghwa says. He’s thought about it before, enough times that he should have a rehearsed answer by now, but he’s never been truly able to decide what he would want in a situation like that. “Once I know, wouldn’t it be painful? Like a waiting game.”

Yeosang’s laugh is delicate, flower-like. “You’re more of a coward than I recall, Seonghwa. Are you trying to say you’re not playing the waiting game right now?” 

“That’s...” Seonghwa pauses, “kind of morbid.” His chest aches with something heavy, familiar, overwhelming, and he keeps _forgetting_ what it is he wants to say every time he’s on the cusp of forming a tangible reaction. 

Yeosang pouts. “Is it?” 

Alarm rapidly fills Seonghwa’s chest when he considers Yeosang’s words again, and belatedly realizes he’d never given his own name. “How do you know my—”

“It took me a long time to find you again,” Yeosang says. “Maybe you’ve felt aimless all these years because we didn’t have a peaceful ending, our last life together.” 

Uncomfortable weight drops in Seonghwa’s stomach, makes what little he’d eaten at dinner feel like iron dread sinking into his feet and hands. 

A concrete answer to a question he’d never have thought of because it was outside his realm of possibilities, but it explains the dreams. Dulling of senses. Inescapable dissatisfaction, no matter high he climbs the ranks in his company or how many confessions of admiration he receives from his peers. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Yeosang asks a different question, instead of clarifying. “What if you could see all of your lives? Would you be less afraid to wait for the end if you knew there’d always be another beginning?”

“Probably,” Seonghwa says. He’d be more spontaneous and a little more impulsive, say the things he meant without fear of repercussions and pursue pipe dreams without worrying whether they’d leave a stain on his track record of carefully obtained successes in life thus far. Maybe he’d try harder to cure heartbreak in the people close to him and stop the white lies in his throat from piling up and trapping him in their stringy webs. 

“Would being present lose its meaning?” 

“What are you looking for me to tell you?” Seonghwa crosses his arms. It’s like Yeosang is measuring him up to some impossible standard, and Seonghwa has had enough experience with invisible tests to know when to stop humoring the examiners. 

“I’m trying to see whether I should stick around or wait until the next instance where our lives overlap,” Yeosang says. “There is no right or wrong answer, just a matter of timing.” His voice turns almost too even towards the end, as if concealing disappointment over grievances Seonghwa is supposed to know but once again, doesn’t. 

He’s looking straight ahead, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in a way that might be interpreted as absentminded, but to Seonghwa just comes off as nervous, and a bit lonely. His tattoos have stopped moving, swirling, and Seonghwa’d figured even before he got in the taxi that he wasn’t dealing with a completely human entity, but it’s only now that the apprehension begins to fade. 

There are stranger things as Yeosang continues driving, lights other than the ones at traffic intersections flickering blood red, ominous orbs in the far horizon of hills and mountains usually obscured in shadow. Street signs start to waver, just enough for Seonghwa to question his vision, and then they’re melting down into the ground entirely, navigation confined to wherever Yeosang wants to take him. Buildings, too, lose their structured angles, soften into organic shapes despite lights in their interiors continuing to stay on, distinct landmarks from Seonghwa’s knowledge of this road disappearing entirely.

“Yeosang,” Seonghwa says. The name feels a lot smoother rolling off his tongue now, even though it’s only his second time uttering it. “Where are you taking me?” 

“Nowhere you haven’t been before,” is all Yeosang offers. “Will you close your eyes for me and count to ten?”

“I could also get out of the car,” Seonghwa says, even as he leans back and does what Yeosang requests of him. 

“You could,” Yeosang says, amused. “But it would cause some complications, so I don’t recommend it.” 

“I barely know you,” Seonghwa says. _1, 2, 3..._

“Right _now_ you barely know me,” Yeosang says. _4, 5, 6..._ “That could change at any given moment. It has before, and it will again.” 

“But you know me?” 

“Always,” Yeosang replies. _7, 8..._ “Between the two of us, I’m the one who never forgets.” 

_...9, 10._

When Seonghwa opens his eyes, he barely holds back a gasp. 

Where a spacious mix of old supermarkets and smaller, run down shops used to reside is now much grander, transformed into a lush, velvet garden and ponds glowing green from their depths. A gas station appeals to have been replaced with a temple towering over the city, glowing red through even the smallest of its round windows and arched doorways. Empty lots still in construction plans before Seonghwa’d sat down for dinner at a barbecue restaurant are filled with bright, warm stalls of pinks, corals, and oranges, bustling with various festivities that look inviting even if Seonghwa hasn’t seen any of them up close. 

This city has never been beautiful, only tolerable in sunny weather with clear skies, gloomy, older buildings overtaken by new overpriced housing climbing towards the sky and unremarkable shopping centers meant to attract more visitors. 

Now it’s breathtakingly gorgeous, vivid hues seeming to have exploded from the hot neon of _Fever’s Fortune_ storefront sign and flooded through the entire city grid like molten lava, and Seonghwa is left to gape at the uncovered facet of a landscape he’s never encountered before. 

“This is what our world used to look like on the other side,” Yeosang says. “Pretty, right?” 

“Yeah,” Seonghwa says, awed. 

“If you look at your skin...” Yeosang says, and Seonghwa looks down at his hands and discovers markings on his knuckles and wrists similar to Yeosang’s own. He turns his head to his reflection in the passenger’s side window, and the same patterned spirals of ink extend beyond his suit collar and into the recently trimmed fade of his haircut. 

“I can’t make you remember everything at once,” Yeosang says, when Seonghwa glances back at him for further explanation, “but with time you’ll probably come to understand.” 

“Are we…” Seonghwa tilts his head, hesitating. The manner in which Yeosang watches him seems to reveal a certain, intimate fondness towards Seonghwa that makes him feel vulnerable even under casual observation. “Were we lovers?”

“More often than not,” Yeosang says. “A few times, we were enemies.” 

“You said we didn’t have a peaceful ending, our last life,” Seonghwa says. “Which one were we?” 

“We were both,” Yeosang says. His eyes might be wet at the corners, or Seonghwa might be trying to read into emotions that aren’t there and compensate for the decades, centuries, eons he’s spent not knowing Yeosang. “Would you like to see more of this world, Seonghwa?” 

“Should I?” 

“If you’d like to feel a little more than this,” Yeosang says, “then yes.” 

❀

Seonghwa is confused when he steps back inside the restaurant and finds his coworkers still chatting at the table. It’s been hours since he’d left. 

“You haven’t gone home yet?” he asks them. There’s even steam coming from the large, burnt red ceramic pot of oxtail broth in the center of the table. Were they that hungry, to ask for a second order of it? 

“What do you mean, hyung?” Jongho asks. “Were you hoping everyone would leave in the five minutes you were gone?” 

“Five minutes…” Seonghwa glances at his watch. It’s barely past 9, when it should be well past midnight. 

“You were looking a little out of it when you left,” Yunho says, with a concerned, searching look. “Are you feeling okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Seonghwa says, flexing his fingers and noting that somewhere in between getting out of Yeosang’s taxi and taking his seat between Hongjoong and San, the markings had disappeared from his skin. “Just tired.” 

“Seonghwa, why do you have ghost money?” Hongjoong asks. 

“Ghost…” Seonghwa‘s surprise catches in his throat, excuses stalling on the tip of his tongue. 

(Earlier, Yeosang had asked Seonghwa for taxi fare, revealing nothing other than an exchange was required between them. 

“Human currency has no meaning to me,” he’d said, as he’d shoved various colorful bills into Seonghwa’s hand, pushing Seonghwa’s fingers gently with his thumb so that Seonghwa’s fist would close again, “but it’s important. Here’s your change.”)

He hadn’t checked the money in his hands, hadn’t considered Yeosang would give him _ghost_ money or else he’d have put it away before coming in. 

“Does it have something to do with the waiter over there?” Yunho asks, and Seonghwa’s attention flickers over to the worker who’d been smoking outside when Seonghwa had left the restaurant. “He’s been looking at you every now and then.” 

The waiter is currently helping another group of customers, but Seonghwa startles when he realizes he recognizes the sing-song laugh, and those long, feline eyes. 

In the city invisible to the human eye, there’d been too much to absorb all at once, but Seonghwa doesn’t mix up faces when he’s paying close attention, and he’s met the waiter before. Just not here. 

“No,” Seonghwa says, eyes widening when they meet the waiter’s, and the man’s lips curve into a knowing smile. It’s not just Seonghwa’s imagination. “I just ran into someone...” 

His heart starts to race, and it’s only when San places a hand over his own that Seonghwa jolts out of his trance, forgoing reconciliation over potentially seeing double and not knowing exactly why. 

“Okay,” Yunho says, though he sounds unconvinced. He pushes a glass of water towards Seonghwa, and Seonghwa gratefully takes a sip from it. 

“We have a transfer coming in tomorrow,” Hongjoong says. “I heard he’s an elite.” 

“Hmm?” 

“He was originally working in a well established branch overseas,” Hongjoong says. “No reason for him to come here.” 

“Probably to oversee how he can help improve the performance of this branch?” Yunho asks. “Well, with how deadbeat half the employees are, that’s probably not going to change unless he’s forceful about new training procedures, or we replace them entirely with new hires.” 

“What’s his name?” Seonghwa asks. 

“Dunno yet.” Hongjoong shrugs. “Why?” 

“Just curious,” Seonghwa says. 

“We’ll find out tomorrow morning, right?” Hongjoong says, and Seonghwa curls his fingers around the joss paper in his coat pocket. 

❀ 

The next day, Seonghwa has trouble breathing in the elevator on the ride up to the office. Nobody else in the cab seems to notice the sudden lack of circulation, but maybe they didn’t have trouble sleeping last night like Seonghwa did. 

He thinks he’s going to faint, and his fingers loosen around his suitcase, but he remains standing. Out of what will, he doesn’t know. 

_More often than not, we were lovers,_ Yeosang had said. _A few times, we were enemies._

 _Why did we part badly?_ Seonghwa remembers asking him later, as they’d walked right through a stall and a group of spirits like they were both made of smoke and nothing solid, and Yeosang had laughed. 

_Because I’d spend eternity chasing you to every corner of the universe,_ he’d admitted, _and you didn’t like that._

“G’morning,” Jongho says when Seonghwa walks in. He tugs on one of Seonghwa’s sleeves even though he already has Seonghwa’s full attention, and Seonghwa laughs, bemused. “The new guy’s super eerie.” 

“Eerie?” Seonghwa blinks, his laugh dying down. 

“I don’t know, probably just me,” Jongho says. “He said he wanted to meet you, though.” 

“I see,” Seonghwa says. The urge to faint returns in full force, and he’s not sure how to tell Jongho that he’s probably not alone in his feelings about having a new presence in their office. 

His feet are simultaneously heavy and light as he approaches the closed door of the newly occupied private office. The blinds are closed, and there’s no name label on the door yet, but Seonghwa doesn’t need one anymore to know who’s on the other side. 

The joss paper inside of his front pants pocket burns. Seonghwa twists the door handle and pushes the door open. 

His chest feels like it’s crushing itself, imploding in flames of hot red neon and lights in the distance of ghost ancestor grave sites. Ink carves itself into Seonghwa’s neck and arms and chest underneath the thin layers of his work clothes, and the heat of it makes Seonghwa open his mouth in a silent gasp as he drops to his knees at the pain burning through his entire body. 

A million lives, some belonging to himself and others to the man across the room from him, flood his being in seconds. Events that have repeated, ones that are yet to fall and occur in their linear timeline. Moments of passion settle in the rush of his pulse in his ears, violence and adoration and desperation linking them together in every single descent down to Earth. They’ve killed, chased, trapped each other, but never once showed indifference to existing side by side. 

Seonghwa suspects the outcome won’t be anything new either, this time. 

The pain disappears, and he finds strength in his legs again, standing. 

“...Yeosang.” 

“Do you remember now?” Yeosang asks, turning to face Seonghwa. His hair is dusty blonde, jaw of porcelain planes. Seonghwa knows what that jaw feels like underneath his palms, without having ever once touched Yeosang like that in this life. 

“You got one thing wrong,” Seonghwa says. “We were enemies more often than we were lovers.” 

“Out of necessity,” Yeosang says. There are tears in his eyes, and they shatter on the floor like glass when they drop. “Can we break the cycle this time around?” 

**Author's Note:**

> can you tell who the waiter is? yea me neither 
> 
> **pls consider leaving a comment if you liked at all? tell me your favorite line :p**


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